


Blackest Palemates

by blacktail



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:11:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/276903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktail/pseuds/blacktail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Droog and Slick have a feelings jam the way only Droog and Slick can: Ultraviolently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blackest Palemates

You should have stayed away. Far, far away, on the other side of the city for as long as possible. This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. You’re going to wind up with holes in you. Deuce and Boxcars have the right idea and haven’t shown hide nor hair around the base in two days. Your name is Spades Slick and you are the fucking idiot. It is you. The idiot who needs to get his Crew moving again, and needs his right hand to function. Not literally, because you lost that arm and your metal one works just fine. Your metaphorical, deadly, classy right-hand. The deadliest man in Midnight City and here you are about to initiate a rare and dangerous feelings jam. Diamonds Droog shouldn’t have feelings, but shit happens sometimes. Shit happened just recently, in fact. Regrettable shit that you haven’t been able to talk to Sleuth about, and don’t know if you’ll ever get the chance to.

He’s playing pool, one man against the entire table, timing himself to see how long it takes to get every single ball in the right pocket. It doesn’t take long. He stops when the eight ball goes into a side pocket, cue poised in his hand. You shouldn’t fuck with Droog when he’s got a cue handy but we went over this earlier: You’re a fucking idiot.

“Droog.” You say his name and step off the stairs into the basement. He looks over his shoulder at you. You don’t flinch, but anyone else would.

“Slick.”

“How goes?” You shove your hands in your pockets and stay right the fuck where you are, well outside of pool cue range. He isn’t holding his Ultra-violence Cuestick, but it’s close enough.

“Fine,” he replies, and chalks the end of the cue. Then he lights up another cigarette. You wonder idly how many packs he’s been through lately. “Haven’t seen much of anyone lately.”

“That’s ‘cause you scared ‘em off.”

“It’s a nice change of pace.”

“We got shit to do, Droog.”

“Then why aren’t we?” He looks at you again, with hard, cold eyes, and your shoulders come up like you’re walking in the wind without a coat.

“Don’t fucking play around. We’re better than that shit.” You get closer, right up to the other side of the pool table. You idiot.

“What do you want, Slick?” He flattens a palm on the table and leans in, you fold your arms and lean back.

“I want to talk to you about Team Sleuth.”

“What about them?”

“They do their jobs, we do ours.”

“I’m glad you know that.” Droog growling like a dog is terrifying and you almost give ground. You don’t. You are the single stupidest man in the entire city.

“Quit your fucking moping and get back to work, Droog.”

Your name is Spades Slick and you are a lucky idiot, because the cue that bashes you across the side of the head doesn’t have any special properties, and breaks before your brain does. You’re on the floor, and pretty fucking quickly Diamonds Droog is over the table and on top of you. When his fist hits your face, smacking your head against the concrete, his face is blank. You’ve seen him reduce men to pulp with his bare fists and not bat an eyelash and holy shit oh god you hope he doesn’t do it to you. That hope is so strong that you start throwing elbows and knees and all the pointy parts of your body to try to get him off. He just batters you until you’re solely trying to keep his blows off your face, but he only stops when he’s ready, and you’re pretty sure he’s broken bones in your face.

However, this brutal and calculating man who has followed you through hell and back isn’t done with you. Still straddling your stomach his long, vice-like fingers dig into the front of your clothes and drag you up to his level.

“I don’t mope,” he says, very simply, very matter-of-fact. You split blood and snarl at him.

“You’re fuckin’ mopin’ over tha’ Pickle Inspector.” A few of your teeth are working their way out of your jaw (they’ll grow back) and making it hard to talk, but goddamnit you came down here to talk, and no one shuts you up. “He’s still in the hospital.”

Droog lurches you to the side and cracks your face against the pool table, then holds you up, inches from his passive face.

“And Problem Sleuth?” he asks.

“…same,” you mutter, dazed and hurting and leaking blood all over Droog’s suit. He has many more and has ruined them over less than this.

“Good.”

“It wouldn’t’a ended like this if we’d figured our shit with them out.” Jegus, what the fuck is wrong with you? Why do you keep talking? Is it really that hard to keep your pointy mouth shut when people are going to kill you? You didn’t learn with the Black Queen, you didn’t learn with Scratch, and Droog isn’t teaching you anything either.

“Don’t be stupid.” He drops you unceremoniously, but doesn’t get off of you. “Did you think we would all end up together? You would just wake up in Sleuth’s apartment one day as an old man, he’d limp around with a cane and a ring of keys, you’d take your morning meds and rob a bank? You’d come have…fucking tea and biscotti with Inspector and I? That we would have a cat and a quiet little place?” Then he does get off of you, but leaves a parting kick in your ribs. “We’ve been distracting ourselves with something new, and novel, Slick. We can’t just sit around and be boyfriends when there’s a city to run.”

“Who’re you tryin’a convince anymore? Me or you?” You smirk like the stupid man you are and Droog’s expensive leather shoe comes down on your ribs. You are so small compared to him, and you never remember, because you can usually make up for it with anger. When he gets you on the ground like this, though, it’s all him.

“Fuck you, Slick.” He lights another cigarette and drags hard off of it. Smoke surrounds his face when he exhales. “They’re not dead, then?”

“No.” You don’t keep the relief out of your voice.

“I thought I put enough holes in them.”

“Tough nuts to crack.”

“Apparently.” He goes quiet, goes still, doing that insect thing he does where he just shifts out of the same reality as everyone else for a bit and turns to stone. “Next time,” he says quietly, “we’ll shoot first.”

“You don’t want a next time any more than I do, let’s be perfec’ly fuckin’ honest here.” You groan as you roll onto your hands and knees, feeling every part of you object. No one throws a beating like Droog. Not even Boxcars. “It ain’t too late.”

You go skidding when Droog kicks you again.

“Business before pleasure,” he tells you. They are the same words Pickle Inspector said before shooting him during a homicide-arson-burglary days prior. No one has ever broken up with Droog before, certainly no one that Droog actually might have a thing for, and certainly not a pasty little freak with compulsivity problems. Certainly not a white shell with less fashion sense than common sense, which was making a real statement.

“Yeah,” you agree, finally satisfied that your stupid words have convinced Droog to get his head back on straight. You dent the pool table with your metal hand, putting so much effort into getting on your feet. “Crew comes first.”

“The Crew comes first,” he agrees, and gathers the broken pieces of the pool cue while you gather your broken you and get ready to abscond for medical attention. “And, Slick.”

“Yeah, Droog.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at you and you look at your blood on his white tie, and you know he’s thanking you for reminding him. Droog doesn’t mope, except when he goddamn well pleases, except when he gets dumped and shot at the same time and the Crew loses their loot in the process. Then you’re there, because you’re the only one who ever could be.


End file.
